This will mark the 20th Mother’s Day since I’ve lost my mother. It’s not an anniversary I ever imagined having to remember or write about. But here we are, and here I go.
Mother’s Day is hard; becoming a mother myself has both softened the blow it delivers each year and exacerbated it. A million thoughts, memories, and ideas swirl in my brain about my mom and my life without her.
1. I’ve become someone’s mother, but I’m no longer someone’s daughter.
When you have a mother, you have a safe landing place—a person who loves you unconditionally and someone to fall back on always. Let’s not rewrite history here. My mother wasn’t the perfect mom, and I wasn’t the best daughter, but she was mine, and despite all the turmoil we went through, she was my number one.
2. Three words: “Happy Mother’s Day.”
If you venture outside your home on Mother’s Day and you are a female, beware. You will be wished a “Happy Mother’s Day” despite any pain your soul may be in. It happened to me early on after losing my mom. I was not a mother, nor did I have a mother, when a CVS cashier wished me a happy day. The sentiments pummeled me.
3. Watching others have parents.
I want to be happy for those who have their mothers accompany them to the supermarket each week, but I honestly can’t. I struggled to shop for food with three children under three, and seeing your lovely family sparks great sadness and jealousy.
I’ve taken a front row seat to grandparents who provide free daycare, cheer on their grandkids from the sidelines, take their families on vacation, and open their homes to their children as they save for their dream home. My parents never got a chance to help with any of the grown-up or grandparent duties I desperately need them for.
4. The guilt.
Losing my parents gave me the freedom to become the person I was going to become. Without a safe place to land, I had to become my own person and decide what kind of life I wanted to live, who I wanted to surround myself with, and even how I wanted to celebrate holidays. I would give everything for one day to spend with my mom (and my dad too, but this is not his day), to do our favorite things together, and for her to be with my children.
I also know that I wouldn’t have the life I have today if she were here. It took losing her to gain the strength to become who I wanted to be. I feel guilty that my life worked out without her in it.
5. She will never grow old.
My Mother never turned fifty years old. I will never have to plan her elder care. She won’t have to come live with me when she takes a fall. I won’t have to find her a nursing home and force her to live there because she swears she’s okay on her own. Having parents doesn’t always have its perks. Family doesn’t equal happiness. So many scenarios that I won’t have to encounter in my lifetime, and as an already stressed-out mom and adult, I’m not mad about that.
6. The memories.
I have lost not just my mother, but the memories that she took with her, the stories of my childhood, and our family history. Also, at the lovely age of almost forty-five, if I don’t have someone to remind me of a memory, I’ve probably forgotten it.
Grief wrecks me; it comes in big waves, little ripples, and is unpredictable at best. How do I cope with my motherless life? I share stories about my mom with my children (as many as I can remember). I take time for myself, I don’t feel guilty about going away with my friends, working jobs I love, and exercising. I break down and cry at weird moments, but also go for long periods with no emotion. I make inappropriate dead mom jokes.
